This is a tour of firsts, no doubt about it.
I woke up this morning with a vague headache and a disturbing feeling in my throat — rather as though a large frog had taken up residence there. That can’t be good, I thought. Some tentative warbling in the shower confirmed my fears: I was losing my voice.
All through the day I tried to keep quiet, drinking bottle after bottle of water (with pit stops to match). At soundcheck in Schuba’s, things seemed okay…not great, but doable. People who’d seen me play before might not find it up to the usual standard, but I could get through an hour of songs and smile mutely through the CD signings. That was the plan.
But then we got on stage at 9 pm, and when I opened my mouth to sing the first high note of My Medea, nothing came out. Not even a squeak. A full half of my singing range had disappeared. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Alan and Marika exchanging panicked glances. (Later Marika told me she was just sending telepathic youcandoityoucandoityoucandoit messages at me, but at the time it looked more like mayday! mayday!) Finishing the verse, much less the whole song, was suddenly out of the question.
What to do?
I looked out at the audience: a packed room, many people who’d come to hear me before. The crowd at Schuba’s has always been good, one of my favorites, a place where I feel like I’m singing to a family in our collective living room. I would have to trust them. So I stopped playing.
“Well, I thought I might be able to get away with not telling you this, but no such luck. It appears that I’m coming down with something. No high notes tonight. We’re going to have to improvise and see what happens.”
We started with Homecoming, which never gets much higher than a middle G-sharp; I figured if I now had a guy’s vocal range, I might as well do a man’s song. Then Feather Moon, with its long vocal pauses and minimal melodic movement. So far, so good. (Shasta, incidentally, was out.) Unwritten Letter #1 went off without a hitch, after some on-the-fly melody changes and lots of Alan showing off on the violin. A light switched on in my head: how about audience participation? The whole room, including Kyler, pitched in on Soon Love Soon. I attempted Lullabye For A Stormy Night, and scattered voices in the audience supplied the chorus when I faltered. And then…I couldn’t think of any more. Five songs. My heart fell.
Marika beckoned to me from the wings. “Let’s do Harbor,” she said. “We’ll switch vocal parts on the chorus. I think I can do it.”
So we finished our mini-set with the single from Warm Strangers, as we have at every other show. I fully expected everyone to clap politely and then file out, disappointed. Instead — oh Chicago, how I love you — the applause went on and on, until it became ridiculous. Walking back up to the mic, I explained that I really didn’t have anything else I could sing. “Just play!” they said. So I played the Green Island Serenade on piano, muzak-style. That seemed to satisfy everyone (or at least convince them that I really was scraping the barrel bottom by now).
To those of you who were there tonight: thank you. I wanted to show you that you matter to me, that I’m grateful you came, that your presence and appreciation are not to be taken lightly. I wanted to give you everything I had, even if it wasn’t enough. Thank you for understanding.
Now, for tea and bed.